


honey-warm tides

by rievu



Series: on the steep waves [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, both are (in a way) women of the seas, if that includes charming her way onto a pirate ship then so be it, josephine and isabela are two sides of the same coin, warmth and tides and stale ale, when duty calls josephine answers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 19:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19400461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: Isabela’s hands are callused against Josephine’s own: years of daggers and ships and ordeals that Josephine can barely even begin to imagine up compared to years of lace handkerchiefs and dancing around the pawns of the Great Game. It’s riveting, to say the least, to hear Isabela’s silk-smooth voice so close to her ear. Her body is warm, warmer than Antivan summers, warmer than honey, against Josephine’s skin, and it overtakes the open rays of sun beating down on them and making their skin match brown for brown.// josephine and isabela, first meeting each other and building together a small note of intimacy on the high seas





	honey-warm tides

There is nothing else quite like the harbor of her home. This is something that Josephine concludes with a sense of finality. She can see Rialto Bay glittering with a blue that rivals a thousand sapphires caught up in the lace of Orlais from her balcony alone. When she inhales deeply, she can smell the summer-spice scent of Antiva — cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, all passing through the hands of the merchant-people of Antiva before flowing to the rest of Thedas — and she smiles. Josephine Cherette Montilyet is home.

Granted, she’s not home for long and for good reasons either. If Yvette were the only one to describe the matter, it would seem as though the whole world was about to come crashing down around the Montilyet family. Really, it was nothing more than a miniature social crisis, easily averted with a few dinners with the right people and a few dances with the right nobles. Josephine has fended off worse social matters in Orlais. On the golden board of the Great Game, Yvette’s issue seems nothing more than a simple, mendable mistake. Nevertheless, she fixes it because she loves her sister, and her family’s reputation is a fragile thing hanging by a few silken threads. 

But for now, Josephine leans against her balcony railing and gazes out at her sun-sweet country. There’s a certain kind of delight that she finds in the salt-breeze of the ocean and the honey-warm air of Antiva that Orlais pales in comparison to. She watches ships bob up and down on the horizon, and the sun bleeds crimson and bronze over the slate of the sky. Her eyes flutter shut, and she relishes in the sense of belonging wrapping warmly over her shoulders. 

When she opens her eyes next, the sun overtakes any sliver of blue and stains it with the color of fire. Against the orange expanse of the sky, she glimpses a night-feathered bird flapping its way towards her. When it approaches closer, she sees a ribbon tied around its leg, and it lands neatly on the balcony railing right beside her. Its intelligent eyes gleam like black fire as it hops towards her and extends its other leg out. There’s a small message tied to it, and the Chantry sunburst across the wax seal shines in the light of the dying sun. Josephine creases her brow with confusion as she takes the letter off. 

She neatly runs her long nail against the edge of the wax and pops the seal. Her eyes skim over the message, taking each whorl of the letters in with a startling tempo. It’s Leliana, and this time, Leliana’s words are laced over and over with unforeseen desperation. The Divine calls for an intervention across multiple branches of Thedas. Josephine recognizes the attempt, but the one that Leliana speaks of is so steeped in old history that it takes Josephine a moment to place the term. But then, she does.

Inquisition. 

She rolls the word over her tongue silently, mouthing out the syllables and testing them on the quiet air. Her only response is the taste of sea salt on the air and a soft croak from the raven, awaiting a reply. Josephine turns back to pace towards her desk. The raven follows after her with steady wing-flaps, and it watches her with those same intelligent eyes as she pulls out a sheet of cream-colored stationery. The Montilyet crest is emblazoned across the top, and Josephine begins her letter with a flourish over Leliana’s name.

The Divine and her Hands have called; Josephine will answer. Not because of the authority alone, no. Josephine is not a weak-willed fool. This is a challenge that demands only the finest minds and an even more delicate touch. If influence is a series of threads criss-crossing Thedas, then Josephine is a weaver of peerless talent: navigating the warp and weft of nobility and plucking out the best of them to spin out the optimal outcome. And more importantly, Leliana is a dear friend. If one of her closest friends asks her for help, then Josephine refuses to let that request go unanswered.

The ink barely dries before Josephine returns to the other side of the page to begin another line anew. She finishes with her signature, and her quill scratches as she swoops the nib through the familiar curves of her own name. While the ink dries, she searches her drawers for wax and a match. She strikes it and watches the small flame lick up the sides of the narrow wood before she lights a candle and melts the sealing wax. The last step is to press her signet ring into the softened wax dripped on the closed letter. The raven watches her movements with a careful eye, and when Josephine pulls the ring away from the wax, it extends its leg out once more. 

Josephine ties the letter down and follows the raven out to the balcony as it soars back on its long flight to its mistress. She follows the dark shape against the darkening skies for as long as she can, but soon, she’s left to stare only at the receding sun. Dusk settles its velvet touch over her beloved home, and Josephine broods as she gazes out at the boundless sea.

She will have to pack all her belongings as quickly as she can and begin her journey to Ferelden as soon as possible. The journey takes time, and she cannot afford to waste the hours she has on her hands. Yvette, Laurien, Antoine, and the rest of her family will all have to wait until she next arrives to Antiva. Josephine is afraid that it will be another long span of time — months or even years — before she can come back home. 

Duty calls though, and Josephine ineffably answers.

* * *

Isabela loves Hawke and Varric and Fenris and Merrill and everyone else from her Kirkwall days. Yes, even Aveline. She misses them too, and despite how hectic those years were, she looks back and wonders if she can call them halcyon days. Barring the entire tome issue and the final explosion, of course, but everything else? She remembers the card games and old ale of the Hanged Man, the laughter as they crawled through spider-infested caves or passed through piss-drenched streets, and most importantly, the friendship of all those people, bound together with the threads of Hawke’s bright, illimitable cheer. Yes, those were the halcyon days. But even then, Isabela has to admit that Kirkwall was a stifling, tenebrous place that choked the life and happiness out of people. Compared to the vast, churning ocean past the shores, Kirkwall is a shithole of a place to be in. Isabela’s grateful for every single part of her ship, and whenever she watches the sun and moons and stars swing over the boundless sea, she’s reminded of that simple yet delightful fact.

For now, she’s landed in Rialto Bay to resupply her ship. She’s been here for a few days, and judging from her crew’s reactions, they’re delighted to spend a few days of shore leave on their own. There’s a brothel on the sunny side of Antiva called “the Bone Pit”, and Isabela stops by out of sheer sentimentality. She told Hawke about this place once when Hawke decided to be overly charitable once again and go to the mine to solve yet another problem landing on Kirkwall’s doorstep. When Isabela walks out, she stretches her limbs high to the sky and pads back to her inn room to wash up one last time before she sets sail again. Her crew should be gathering at the docks before sunset starts. There are many things that Isabela dislikes about Antiva City — most of all, some of the memories from it — but this is one thing that Isabela likes about Antiva. When the sun begins to fall from its zenith in a shower of colors, it’s one of the most beautiful and glorious things she’s seen from shore. 

She and her crew start going through the usual motions: cutting fresh rope down into lines to replace some of the damaged ones aboard the ship, hauling on halyards, and checking through the inventory one more time. Isabela steps aboard the docks one more time after one of her crew finds that they have 70 less kilos of food than they’re supposed to have. Isabela adjusts her hat on her head and sends a few of her men to find those missing kilos. The sea is glorious, but starving while sailing on it is something that Isabela would wish on nobody except for the truly terrible, much less herself. A loud shout echoes over the docks when one finds the missing crates and barrels by the wrong ship. Isabela strides over and directs her men back to her ship, but as she moves, she brushes past an Antivan noblewoman.

“Sorry,” she mutters. The Antivan noblewoman sweeps up her skirts with one hand and nods at her before she turns back to resume whatever she’s arguing over. Isabela’s about to move on when the rough sailor raises his voice at the woman. 

“Blast it all, woman, I can’t just send you all the way to Highever without a moment’s notice,” he snaps. “Don’t care if you’re rich or poor, you’ve got nothing in your head if you think I can just divert my courses to suit your whims.”

It’s normal to hear such coarseness at the docks, but that’s not the thing that makes Isabela pause for sure. It’s the way the noblewoman replies. She draws herself up to her full height and says in a low, sure voice, “Denerim, then. A popular destination for merchants, is it not? 540 miles at sea, and considering the nature of your ship and the cargo you have aboard, it would take only a week.” Isabela watches the woman gesture over to a ship moored at the docks. “Look at your ship, good sir. Four-masted, square-rigged, well-maintained. I’d say you’d be able to sail to Denerim easily which discounts your claim that it is too difficult to take me there. Moreover, your trade routes are irregular for a ship that size, and considering the rising strength of Ferelden in Thedas today — after the Blight, of course — it would be a fool’s choice to refuse a stop by Denerim if you really do plan on sailing down the Waking Sea to Val Royeaux.” The woman pauses and taps her chin with her ringed finger. “Unless,” she slowly says. “You never planned on going to Val Royeaux with your cargo in the first place.”

Damn. Isabela squints at the man and tries to register him in her memory. She digs through her memories and wonders if this is that new Ricardo that signed up with the Raiders a few months ago. She never really paid much attention to him. He dealt with cargo and had ties with Tevinter that would make Fenris rip out his heart. More importantly, it looks like this noblewoman’s seen the truth and cleaved it right down to the core.

Ricardo snarls and draws a long-bladed knife from his belt as he advances on the noblewoman. “Clever, aren’t ya?” he spits. “Do you know what we do with clever girls?”

Isabela sighs. What a bumbling fool. A man who can’t hold his tongue is something that strikes Isabela’s ire faster than a match to fire, especially when that said man decides to take it upon himself and insult a woman. She veers around and calls out, “We buy clever girls a drink and then chat with them for the night because Maker knows a drunken man can barely talk his way out of something, much less a good conversation.” 

Ricardo glances up at Isabela and rakes her over with his gaze. Isabela cocks her hat at him. However, that only makes his features twist over with a frown and he hisses, “You’re that bitch that got Castillon killed.”

“Well, to be fair, that was a while ago,” Isabela shrugs. “And he had it coming. Also, I didn’t deal the killing blow. Certainly slashed him up a few times with these babies though.” She unsheathes one dagger and twirls it in her grip. It was a dagger Hawke once gifted to her. It’s just as sharp as the day Hawke gave it to her too. “Now,” she evenly says. “Are we going to have to repeat what happened to Castillon here, or are you going to leave quietly?” 

It appears as though Ricardo wants to relive a taste of Castillon’s lifestyle because he lunges at her with his knife now. Isabela sidesteps around him and draws her other dagger before she returns the blow. However, she doesn’t miss. When Ricardo’s body slumps on the docks, she looks over at Ricardo’s crew and eyes them with a keen gaze. Unlike Ricardo, they look like they’re more inclined to choose their lives over attacking. Good. She’s not the Queen of the Eastern Seas for nothing. Castillon’s death, her renewed place among the Raiders, and her reputation from Kirkwall all combined to give her a decent position as one of the leaders of the Armada.

“Now, sweet thing,” Isabela sighs. She turns to face the noblewoman who’s blanched a bit at the sight of the blood. To her credit, the noblewoman doesn’t back down. “What are you doing in this sector of the docks at night? You’re Antivan, aren’t you? And you’re certainly smart, judging from your conversation with dear Ricardo over there. What brings you here?”

The noblewoman dips into a small curtsy and says, “I am Lady Josephine of House Montilyet and chief ambassador for Antiva to Orlais. I’m afraid I need to get to Ferelden within the week.”

“Aren’t there ships over in your people’s side of the docks to take you there?” Isabela wonders. She wipes her daggers clean of the blood and sheathes them. 

“All gone,” Lady Josephine exhales. “The merchants still affiliated with my family will not change their routes for me, and the few ships that were headed to Ferelden or intended to stop by have already set sail by the time the sun set.” She glances up at the now-darkened sky studded with stars and muses, “I thought I might try my luck on the other side.”

“Bold,” Isabela comments. 

The lady pins Isabela with a gaze that could cut through silverite and evenly replies, “I must be if I ever intend to get things done. Although I prefer to avoid violence, I know how to protect myself if things turn… Problematic.”

Isabela laughs, and the sound rumbles through her chest and out her throat. “I like you,” she says with a delighted smile. “You’ve got some spunk to you, haven’t you? I’m Isabela. Know a decent amount about boats, don’t you?”

Josephine offers Isabela a small smile. “Queen of the Eastern Seas? I did not realize I was speaking to one of the leaders of the Felicisima Armada. A pleasure to meet you,” she says. “And to answer your question, yes, I know a few things about boats. You must know the tools of your trade, and I am the daughter of a merchant’s family.”

“I can take you to Ferelden,” Isabela finds herself saying. “Won’t be a cushy trip like the ones you might be used to, but I can take you there.” 

It’s an impulsive decision, spontaneous and hasty and rash with all things considered. But she _does_ have a delivery to make in Kirkwall. A request from Aveline, actually, for the survivors of the blast. No merchant wants to go to Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion, even with Varric’s best efforts. Isabela’s never had much of an issue with breaking laws and defying norms, so of course she agreed to the big girl’s request. She has all that Varric, Merrill, and Aveline asked for within the walls of her ship’s hull. Highever’s right on the way, and she could jaunt over to Kirkwall after that.

So, Isabela keeps the decision that she makes squarely in her hands, and as she looks at this lady’s face, she thinks it might be marginally more interesting with Lady Josephine Montilyet aboard than trips to Kirkwall normally are.

* * *

Captain Isabela offers to share a room with Josephine during the journey. Josephine is more inclined to refuse. The captain’s already done enough for her, and Josephine does not want to appear useless aboard the ship. Isabela shrugs when Josephine says so and shows her to where her crew sleeps below deck. There are hammocks slung between the beams, and Isabela hooks up a spare hammock for Josephine beside a few other women. 

“I don’t keep crews that don’t respect women aboard my ship,” Isabela says as she ties down the knots with deft hands. “But if anyone treats you wrongly or makes you feel unsafe, you come to me right away, alright?”

“Thank you,” Josephine says gratefully. “I appreciate it.”

The _Siren’s Call II_ is a quicker ship than the original barque that Josephine was trying to board on the docks. It’s a slim, swift thing with a single mast and a bowsprit almost as long as the hull. When Josephine tells Isabela that she needs to be in Ferelden within the week, the captain only nods and has her crew hoist a square topsail to boost their speed. Josephine studies the way they measure the speed and muses, _almost eleven knots, clever._

Josephine pitches in with the work, and although her hands aren’t as swift and calloused as the sailors’ hands, she tries. Her body vaguely remembers the timbers and the lines comprising a ship from her childhood days. She remembers laughing on the docks and running around on decks of ships as sailors hauled barrels and crates back and forth. Like she told Isabela, she’s the daughter of a merchant family who once made their riches off the vastness of the sea. Her mother refused to let her children grow up without understanding the sea and the ships that once held their wealth. Even though the Montilyet family name is one long absent from the seas, Josephine remembers those childhood days and _tries._

Isabela watches her once with careful eyes, cataloguing Josephine’s movements. Josephine wipes the sweat off her brow and tucks a few stray hairs back behind her ears before she notices Isabela. She jauntily strolls over, and without missing a single beat, Isabela reaches behind Josephine’s hands and guides them through the knots. Isabela’s hands are callused against Josephine’s own: years of daggers and ships and ordeals that Josephine can barely even begin to imagine up compared to years of lace handkerchiefs and dancing around the pawns of the Great Game. It’s riveting, to say the least, to hear Isabela’s silk-smooth voice so close to her ear. Her body is warm, warmer than Antivan summers, warmer than honey, against Josephine’s skin, and it overtakes the open rays of sun beating down on them and making their skin match brown for brown.

Later, when the sun eases its baleful warmth, Isabela comes to Josephine again and proffers her a bottle of ale. Josephine takes the bottle and regards it before taking a sip. It burns down her throat with a surprising scratchiness, and she coughs out, “Strong, isn’t it?”

Isabela takes the bottle back and takes a swig. “That just means it has character. Good to knock someone out with, good to clean the deck with,” she says as she tips the bottle towards Josephine. “Character.”

Josephine eyes the bottle warily and against her better judgement, she takes the bottle back for another sip. “Wouldn’t you _not_ want to drink it then?” she asks after she coughs the next sip down. This makes her miss the wines in her father’s cellar, all organized by date. The Montilyet family may no longer have the trade influence that they did several ages ago, but her family still has their wineries and their estates. She’s sipped the worst wine Antiva has to offer and even coughed up a poisoned wine in Orlais during her fledgling days. This puts them all down and wins as the worst thing she’s drank.

“Now, why would I _not_ want to drink something with character? Certainly not the worst thing I’ve drank before,” Isabela says. She waggles her eyebrows and teases, “Now, if we were to discuss the nastiest thing I’ve ever swallowed, that’s another hour on the mark. And before you ask, yes, I swallow.”

Josephine blinks at the crude humor. Unexpectedly blunt, but it doesn’t change the humor about it. She stifles down a laugh and says, “That’s certainly one way to say it.”

Isabela winks at Josephine and takes the bottle back. As she leans back and tips her head back up to the sky, she asks, “How are you enjoying the journey so far? How is the sea for you?”

Josephine looks at Isabela, looks at the way she looks, outlined against the flickering lantern light and the silvered light of the moons and stars. “I think almost every Antivan must like the sea, and I’m no different,” she finally says. “Watching the gulls go by, the taste of salt on the air, all these things are old memories. It’s nice to relive it once more.”

Isabela muses, “Sailing is like sex. Do it wrong, and it’ll make you sick. But do it right, and there’s no feeling in the world like it.” Now, Josephine sputters at the blatant crudeness before she dissolves into pure laughter that rings out against the quiet night. Isabela chuckles, “Good to hear someone appreciates my humor. Did you go sailing before?”

Josephine reins her composure back in and wraps her arms around her knees. “My mother insisted that we all learn how a ship works and go on a merchant ship for ourselves to see how the work is done,” she tells Isabela.

“Clever mother,” Isabela says. “I like her already. Wish I had a mother like that.” That last sentence makes Josephine pause. She makes her living off of hearing the secrets that people hide in their words, and Isabela’s voice is too light and too quick on those last words. Curious.

“Common sense and firm logic. That was the way my mother worked,” Josephine returns. She hesitates, but the strong alcohol loosens her tongue and makes the words flow off her lips easier. “Different than my father who knew more about wines and land and art. Most of my siblings take after him actually.”

Isabela looks back down at Josephine and gazes at her in a way that makes Josephine feels like she’s being examined, past her clothes and past her skin down to her very core. “But you take after your mother, don’t you?” she says.

Josephine glances at her hands and turns them over, imagining her mother in her mind. Her mother was of lower class and lower name than the Montilyets. Not quite far to mark her as anything less than nobility, but her mother certainly toed the line before she married Josephine’s father. A daughter of the Antivan navy, a daughter with pirates’ blood and military blood all mixed and intermingled in her family line who then married a fallen noble out of nothing but love. Josephine loves her mother, loves her with her heart and soul, but she never thought that she was anything like her brave mother. “Is it that obvious?” she asks.

“Look at you, Lady Montilyet,” Isabela laughs. She gestures to Josephine, still with the bottle in her hand. “You took off your golden ruffles and frills and put on a worn linen one, rolled up your sleeves, and did your damn best to tie those ropes.”

Josephine pinches the edge of the old blouse. She accidentally grabbed one of her brother’s blouses from the maid’s laundry hamper in her rush to leave. Josephine willingly admits that she’d rather have her brother’s linen blouse ruined than her one woven from gold, but she also willingly admits that she’s not as good as the sailors. Childhood memories and a mother from a naval family did not quite make up for her ability. “Not very well, I’m afraid,” she says.

Isabela sets down the bottle and reaches out to tap Josephine’s nose with the tip of her finger. “But the effort is the one that counts, sweet thing,” she says. “And you’re doing beautifully.”

Josephine inspects Isabela’s face: the way her chin tilts just so, the way her necklace frames her neck and falls along the lines of her collarbones, the way her eyes are fixed on Josephine and Josephine alone. She has to admit that there’s a note of interest in her eyes, and Josephine knows herself well enough to know that her own features betray the same interest. She’d like to blame the alcohol for making her lean in closer to Isabela, for making her scoot along the wood of the _Siren’s Call II,_ for making her twitch her fingers towards Isabela’s hand. But Josephine is not a fool, and she _knows_ herself.

Still, Josephine does what Josephine does best: charm.

* * *

Varric once told her that she was like the sea: turbulent and unpredictable. Hawke agreed but mostly because she was drunk out of her mind and was sagging against the wall of the Hanged Man — never a good idea, who knows what was stained on that wall — and agreeing with everything that everyone said. She even said yes to Anders who wanted to go rummaging around Darktown for some piss crystals to fix his potion. Isabela remembers Anders showing up the next day at the Hanged Man, looking for Hawke and saying that she agreed to help him with his piss crystal search. Isabela went along for the promise of good ale and an adventure, and Isabela ended up with an explosion instead.

But it is what it is. The sea and whatever else it has to offer. Josephine Montilyet tells Isabela the same thing, but unlike Varric, this is something that she whispers while their limbs are still unclothed and twined around each other. The sweat still isn’t dry on Josephine’s brow, and her textured hair has long fallen out of its formerly-neat bun. 

“Now, I don’t know about that,” Isabela says. “I think I’m a good deal prettier than the sea. Better at sex than the sea too.”

“Vain of you to say,” Josephine mumbles, lips still pressed against Isabela’s skin. Isabela can feel the way Josephine smiles though.

“It’s not vain if it’s the truth,” Isabela corrects.

Josephine props herself up with a hand and asks, “And do you tell the truth often?” Her eyes are bright, and the ambassador looks like a Maker-sent _vision_ with the way she looks in Isabela’s bed. Her voice tilts with a teasing tone, but Isabela shivers under the question.

The truth. Veracity, candor, authenticity, honesty, and whatever else the common language can come up to describe it. Isabela thinks that Aveline and Merrill are more inclined to the truth than Isabela ever will be. Even Hawke with her silvered tongue is closer to telling the truth than Isabela ever is. Most of her years in Kirkwall — and even now — are laced up and over with half-truths and omissions and bold-faced lies. Varric isn’t the only one who can weave a story. Isabela can do just the same.

“When it suits me,” Isabela finally decides to say. She tweaks Josephine’s nose, just because she can, and when Josephine wrinkles her face into a delightful expression, Isabela says, “Look at me, darling, I’m a paragon of appeal. An all-round treasure, even. No need to worry about little details like the truth.”

Josephine lies back down and stares up at the wooden slats of the ceiling. “If you’re an all-round treasure, does doing this make me a pirate?” she muses.

“Fucking me? Perhaps,” Isabela considers. “If you’re ever looking to join the Raiders, sweetness, I’ll take you on.” 

“Even if I’m not very good at tying knots?”

“We’ll teach you how to do it better,” Isabela declares. She plucks one edge of the sheet up to twist between her thumb and index finger as she says, “Maybe even right now. Some people are into that in bed, all tied up with silken scarves and whatever else. I’ve got a few silk scarves I picked up off an Orlesian merchant ship.”

“You can’t possibly be ready for another round already,” Josephine says. The incredulous note in her voice makes her laugh.

“I always am, sweet thing,” Isabea easily replies. “Think about it. You and me on the high seas, an Antivan and a Rivaini straddling each other as the sun sets. We could plow each other like Fereldans in a potato field.” Teasing is easy; she could do this all day. Now, the greater question is if she means it or not. Isabela looks over at Josephine: fine features, high-raised nose, a small mole dotting her skin along her jaw. Lady Montilyet is beautiful if nothing else. Isabela could live with that, could spend her days laughing and teasing the noblewoman in more ways than one. 

“Imaginative, but wait a little bit. I don’t have the same kind of stamina,” Josephine sighs. She turns on her side, and the mole disappears from sight as she burrows her face against the pillow.

“Is this a yes?” Isabela can’t help but ask.

Josephine cracks one eye open and says, “Already asking me to join your ship is a little swift, isn’t it?”

Isabela shrugs, “I’m a woman of action.”

“And a woman of immense flirtation,” Josephine tacks on. She shuts her eyes again, and a beat of silence passes between them. It’s so quiet that Isabela can count the spaces between her heartbeat, and she finds that it matches in tune with the waves of the sea. Josephine finally sighs and says, “I’m afraid I have work ahead of me.”

“How boring,” Isabela exhales. She slides down the bed, skin running smooth against the sheets. She lays her head down on the other half of the pillow.

Josephine makes room for Isabela — not like there’s much space in Isabela’s slim bed — and says, “It is the truth.”

“The truth is boring,” Isabela comments. 

In most cases, the truth is indeed more boring. Take Varric, for instance. He makes Kirkwall sound like an adventure of the wildest kinds, a thrill-ride for the courageous, an ordeal that forged a hero out of a frost-slip refugee that ran from the Blight. The truth is much more boring than that. The boring truth, in that case, is that one woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time, over and over and over again. There wasn’t any glory in that. In fact, Isabela would dare to call it a rather inglorious burden on Hawke’s shoulders. In Isabela’s case, she thinks that the lies that she uses are all certainly more interesting. She had a conversation with Varric once about it. _I thought the reefs around the Wounded Coast were made of candy, and a demon told me to do it,_ she once told Varric oh so very long ago. _It bet me sixty sovereigns and a bottle of port._ Even though it was complete bullshit, it still was more interesting than the truth in Isabela’s eyes. Candied reefs. Much better than a terrible deal struck in the shadow of debt.

Josephine takes a moment to consider Isabela’s words, and she asks, “Does that suit you?”

“Mmm, maybe after a glass of cognac,” Isabela tells her.

Josephine snorts. It’s a brash, bold sound out of the refined lady. Isabela likes it. “The only thing we have is that terrible ale,” Josephine retorts.

Isabela smiles, “I have cognac hidden somewhere here.”

“And you offered me that ale instead?”

“Hey now, that ale has _character.”_

Josephine laughs, and Isabela laughs with her. Josephine has a way of laughing that is warm, warm like the summer sun, and with enough humor, it has a way of deepening her voice until it shakes through her shoulders with a trueness that Isabela rarely sees in noblewomen. 

Later, when Josephine slowly falls asleep at Isabela’s side, Isabela can’t help but think about the sea and its wildness. Turbulent and unpredictable, wild and bold and tempestuous. Anarchic, even. But what Josephine said sticks more than Varric’s old words. “Tidal, aren’t you,” she murmured with her hands against the curves of Isabela’s body. “Constant. Paradoxically so.”

Isabela doesn’t know if she can classify herself like that. She’s the type to leave her problems in the dust, to set sail and forget all the troubles she left behind on land, to leap into the unknown rather than staying in confines that limit her beyond her reach. She doesn’t know if she can call herself something like _constant_ when everything else defines her otherwise. But something aout the concept is appealing. Makes her want to be so. Like Josephine said, paradoxically so, like the tides that lap up against the shores in tune with the moons.

This is a short affair. One romp out of all the many romps Isabela’s had over the course of her life. But she liked it, liked spreading Josephine out on her bed, liked sitting between Josephine’s thighs while the woman in question looked at her like she was a goddess incarnate. Isabela liked it, and she’s not sure if she’ll really forget it. Josephine seems to give her much to think over.

* * *

The ship docks in Highever as Isabela promised. 

Josephine changes into her golden blouse and her sapphire-blue skirt — the brilliant colors of her home — before she departs. She returns her brother’s old blouse at the bottom of her chest, but with it, she pins the smallest, single feather from one of the many plumes affixed to Isabela’s hat. One last souvenir that the pirate captain pressed into her hand during their last night together. Josephine thinks that this was a rare trip, both in its inception and its conclusion. She’s not one to open her thighs for any person that comes along, but Isabela is a sea in the making, charisma and secrets and half-told truths all wrapped up into one woman. How could she resist that? It almost seems as though the trip was far too short, but the end is here, and Josephine must depart. Duty calls, and she must answer.

Isabela escorts her off the sloop, but before they leave, Josephine pats the railing of the _Siren’s Call II_ for some inexplicable reason. Isabela looks at her with a single raised eyebrow, and Josephine shrugs, “For good luck, perhaps?” Isabela gives her a smile and proffers her own hand. "Not an ale bottle this time?" Josephine jokes before she clasps it, and Isabela tucks it under the crook of her arm with much pomp and circumstance.

“An Antivan and a Rivaini step into Ferelden, hand in hand,” Isabela says, soft and musical. “Sounds almost like the start of a good joke.”

“We will simply have to wait and see what the punchline is,” Josephine returns. 

Isabela quirks the corners of her lips into a secret smile. “Do you think it’ll be funny?” she asks.

“Perhaps,” Josephine says with a huff of laughter. “I can only hope that it’s entertaining.”

“With me? Always,” Isabela reassures her.

Highever’s port is bustling with too many people. Sailors hauling cargo aboard, families waiting to board ships, seagulls hopping over the wooden docks for crumbs and morsels of food. Josephine inhales deeply, and although the scent is not quite Antiva — too sour and not warm enough — the salt of the sea breeze remains inescapably there. 

Josephine glimpses the sight of a familiar face, and with her heart leaping in her chest, she calls out, “Leliana!” 

The figure turns, and oh, Josephine forgot how much she missed her good friend. Leliana makes her way over, sidestepping around people and slicing through the crowd on silent steps. Leliana pulls Josephine from Isabela’s grip and crushes her into a sure embrace. “Josie,” she whispers into Josephine’s ear. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” Josephine returns. She pulls away and studies her friend’s face. Leliana looks even wearier which Josephine didn’t think was possible. The dark circles have deepened underneath her eyes, and her skin looks too pale to be healthy. However, the joy dancing in Leliana’s eyes is a familiar sight, and Josephine’s grateful for it.

“Leliana?” Josephine hears Isabela ask. Her voice is full of disbelief, and Josephine pulls away from Leliana to glance back.

“Isabela?” Leliana returns, mirroring the same incredulous tone.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sister Nightingale,” Isabela chuckles. “To think that _she_ was the one that made you so eager to reach Ferelden, Lady Montilyet.”

“Not like that,” Josephine chides. "For work. I told you already."

Isabela pats Josephine on the shoulder and says, “There, there. I know. I just love to tease.”

“I see that part of you hasn’t changed a single bit,” Leliana observes. “It’s been a while, Isabela.”

“Mmm, it certainly has,” Isabela muses. “Been a long time since I’ve seen you around Kirkwall.”

Honestly, Josephine isn’t surprised that Leliana knows Isabela. Leliana seems to know too much about everything, and sometimes, Josephine has to wonder if Leliana’s network of agents stretches even farther than her own connections. 

“I hear you’ve been frequenting more northern climes though,” Leliana says, voice deceptively casual. 

“What can I say?” Isabela shrugs. “Dairsmuid and Antiva City are much warmer and have better alcohol.” Isabela's gaze drifts over to Josephine, and she says, "Much more fun to be found in places like Antiva, you know."

“Yet you stayed in Kirkwall for so long,” Leliana says. Josephine recognizes that look in Leliana’s eyes now. It’s the colder, serrated attitude that settled over her after she became the Left Hand of the Divine, and now, Josephine steps in between them.

“Thank you for your help, Isabela,” she says. Josephine tries to pour as much sincerity into her voice as she can. “Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to make it to Ferelden this quickly.”

“No problem, sweetness,” Isabela replies, easy and steady as honey-warm sun. “Do let me know if we’re ever in the same port again. Offer’s always up too, if you ever need it.”

Josephine laughs at that — a simple, tinkling slip of a laugh — and says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Isabela sweeps into a low, ostentatious bow and even takes her admiral’s hat off to accompany it. Just before she stands straight though, she reaches for Josephine’s hand and leaves a kiss on the back of it, gentle and soft and more tender than anything Isabela’s given her yet. Josephine can’t stop a low flush run through her cheeks, and she watches Isabela wink at her. 

“You said it yourself,” Isabela says. Her voice drops a little in pitch, and the Rivaini burr in her voice deepens as she continues, “I’m like the sea, and the tides always come back to the shore. I’ll be back before you know it.” 

Josephine's taken aback. She thought Isabela wouldn't remember the small, muffled comment she made. It was such a small phrase compared to everything else that she spoke about. Only a sliver of a sentence at that, too. Still, Josephine pulls herself together and shoots back by asking, “Will you have terrible ale with you when you come back?” 

Isabela winks at her and says, “For you, I’ll pull out that cognac. Don’t worry; it’s got its own character too.”

“Until next time, captain.”

“Until next time, my lady.”

**Author's Note:**

> i think that josephine and isabela would make a delightful couple together. i think there's this one line in the war table dialogue that goes something along the lines of "do you ever wonder what's beyond the seas" or smth like that from josephine?? anyways, i just wanted josephine and isabela to interact, and this was the first potential place i thought of. maybe i'll write a sequel continuing their relationship since this was only the start, but also, isabela was horrifically difficult to write for me ;; sorry if she seems OOC! also, apologies for any inaccuracies. i'm afraid my knowledge pertaining to pirates and sailing is woefully bare. i tried to do some research, but even then, i'm not quite sure if i got it. hope it's alright though :")
> 
> please let me know what your thoughts were in the comments below! i would love to hear them <3


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